The first social distance weekend of March, I got a call, not a text, from someone I dated in 2018. We weren’t serious, but we had a connection. He asked if he could take me out after all this was over.
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A man jogs towards me on the sidewalk and then goes into the street to give me six feet of space. I wave and smile. He does too. In that moment, there is a connection of care. In the necessary distance, I link with this stranger. It’s a total juxtaposition; we join through separation. Bizarre.
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Every year, my grandma writes me and my brother Chanukah cards. They’re personalized, filled with love, and usually also filled with gelt: chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil when we were younger, and a small bit of money today. This Chanukah, her card was just what I needed as I stepped off of a rollercoaster of a semester.
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I clip into my spin bike and look around the room. I spot the familiar faces and think, These guys are always here. They must come all the time. Way more than me.
Before I even start the workout, I beat myself up a bit. Why?
The music starts to speed up. I catch my rhythm and try to dismiss the thoughts.
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Around 11pm, I exited the highway onto a double turn lane. In the left lane, I inched out for a right on red. The truck next to me, pulling a giant trailer, followed in full force. They gunned their gas and I watched as momentum swung the trailer into my lane. I sped my VW Beetle into the opposite side of the double yellow. One car, in oncoming traffic, switched lanes…
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I walked into the dark IMAX theater a few minutes late. Without my special 3D glasses, I saw fuzzy orange butterfly images and greenery. In the crowd, kids stood in front of their chairs with their arms out in expectation. I chose a seat up high so I could enjoy the movie and the children trying to catch monarch magic.
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In the morning when my alarm goes off, I roll from side to side in my cozy sheets, stretch my legs out long and point my toes. I gently rub my belly and breathe deeply. I wipe my eyes and drink the water sitting on my nightstand before my feet hit the ground. I walk to the window, slide the plush white curtains to the edge, and allow my eyes to get their first glimpse of the morning sky. Inhale & Exhale.
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Roaches. They haunt my first memories. In Lubbock, TX circa age two, my twin sister and I both woke up from bad dreams. We set out to seek comfort. Reaching our parents required a journey across the house.
We knew endless dark bugs waited for us.
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“It was 1997, and I was 23 and working in Boston in my first professional job as a sales service representative for an educational publisher. I answered the 1-800 hotline and spoke with customers all day. But my goal was to become an editor.
One unsuspecting day about six months into the job, my coworkers and I were gathered to learn that our department was being eliminated.”
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